The RedHeaded Murder League
by Paxie Amor
Summary: Following their showdown with Moriarty, Sherlock and John are thrust into a new case, involving the murders of seemingly random people. The only connection: they all have red hair, a trait worries Sherlock...
1. Prologue

I remember walking into the natatorium and saying Evening to Sherlock, who had the most bewildered expression on his face. I remember the look of understanding when I began talking in an over enunciated monotone, followed by horror when I opened my coat. I remember the conversation with Moriarty, the feeling of shame for letting myself getting caught like this. I remember grabbing hold of the villain, wrapping my arms around tightly and yelling at Sherlock to run only to have the laser sight that had once been on me move to him.

The next moments seemed to go so quickly, a blur but a memorable one. Moriarty making his threats before slipping out the back door; Sherlock getting the vest off me; my collapsing to the floor and making a comment about him ripping my clothes off in a darkened pool. We giggled. I thought then, as we had that giggle, that everything was going to be alright.

But then the laser sight came back not just one, a bunch. Moriarty was back, taunting us. I remember Sherlock standing by the pool, the gun aimed at the bomb that only moments before had been strapped to my chest. Moriarty actually looked surprised worried, even? Sherlocks hand never wavered; my eyes closed just as he pulled the trigger, I felt something press against me before the second shot there had been a second shot, why

I remember being pulled out of the rubble by Lestrade and Sergeant Donovan, telling the latter in quite a colorful way to shut her mouth when she started in on Sherlock and I told you to stay away from that guy. Sherlock. Lestrade said there was no trace of him, but he was there was he dead, did he make it out, did Moriarty take him where was he?

I remember getting to Charring Cross, getting checked out and put in a room for the night, just to make sure I was alright; my injuries consisted of a concussion, some bumps and bruises. I remember Sarah coming around midnight and going just before I fell asleep. Of all those things I remember, none of them included the young girl who was at my bedside when I woke up.


	2. Chapter 1

Hello! I forgot to post something in the prologue, so I'll do that now! The prologue is (so far) going to be the only part of the story that's in first person, we'll be switching over to third person now :D Please read and review!

* * *

John Watson looked at the girl seated by his hospital bed, knowing full well that he'd never seen her before. She was not quite a girl, but not a woman. Early to mid teens, then. Her hair was done up into two curly pigtails; bright red, beautiful coloring. Her eyebrows matched, so the color was natural. Her eyes were shut, her cheeks stained with tears. She seemed to be asleep… how long had he been out? Long enough for her to get comfortable in that chair and cry herself to sleep. John grinned slightly; Sherlock was definitely rubbing off on him.

"Oh… you're awake…" The voice was soft, but loud enough to shake him from his thoughts.

"So are you," he replied. "You were crying before you fell asleep, are you alright?"

"Oh, I'm fine," she said, wiping the last remnants of tears from her eyes. "I got in here around one, you were already asleep and I didn't want to wake you so I was watching a film on my iPod… must've dozed off at the Pas de deux…"

"Sorry, the what?"

"Pas de deux; part of a ballet performed by two dancers? The one from _The Nutcracker_ tends to make me cry, couldn't tell you why." He was able to see her eyes now; they were a bluish-green… and so familiar.

"I'm sorry, who are you?" he asked. She smiled a little. He was seeing it more now, that face was so familiar… but who's face was it…

"I'm Evera," she replied. "Everyone calls me Evie… well, except Uncle Mycroft, he insists on Evera…"

"Wait, Uncle Mycroft?" It all fit now; the bright red hair threw him off, but he could see it perfectly now. "You're Sherlock's niece… but not Mycroft's daughter?" Evie laughed, shaking her head.

"No, no," she said. "I'm not Mycroft's… good lord, I don't even want to think about that…" She shuddered a little. "No, I'm just a niece. My father was the oldest brother, Sherringford." John raised an eyebrow.

"…Sherringford, Mycroft and Sherlock?"

"Yeah… Granddad Holmes' first name was Siger… seems only the Holmes women have somewhat normal names."

"Clearly… what are you doing here?"

"Looking in on you, of course."

"But where's Sherlock?" Her eyes widened in surprise, her mouth hung open slightly. "What? Is he alright, have they found him yet?"

"Oh, you poor dear," she replied. "Has no one told you anything?" It John's turn to be surprised.

"Told me what, what do you mean?" he demanded, noticing how loud his voice was getting, but not caring about it at all. He was angry, his face was on fire and he was shouting at this teenage girl… who was perfectly calm. And smiling.

"Uncle is upstairs, in the room right above this one." Evie looked up at the ceiling. She shouted, "And probably not in bed like he's supposed to be!" John heard a loud thump come from the room above, followed by a cursing voice. Sherlock's cursing voice. He was alive. "I'm so sorry, Uncle Mycroft said he'd been down to see you and told you that I'd—or least _someone_—would be down to sit with you… I'm going to swat him when I next see him, I swear…"

"What happened to him, to Sherlock?" John asked. "Is he going to be okay?"

"Calm down, Doctor Watson," the girl said with a smile. "Give me a moment to grab you a wheelchair and we'll head up after we swing by the cafeteria."

"Why are we swinging by the cafeteria?" John called as she walked out the door. She popped her head back in, smiling.

"Because it's almost one o'clock, I'm hungry, I have no doubt that _you're_ hungry, and Uncle never says no to a cup of coffee and a few biscuits."

Evie was true to her word, coming back not two minutes later with a wheelchair. John looked at the chair, at Evie, then back at the chair.

"Before you ask," she said, "yes, I am going to make you take this chair all the way up and back."

"My legs work perfectly fine…"

"Yes, but I'm a good twenty years younger than you and can walk much faster." She grinned. "Besides, Uncle needs a good scare after being such a complete idiot as of late. We could probably convince him you're paralyzed or something, that would teach him…" John's jaw dropped, his eyes wide. "What?"

"…You're so…" John shook his head. "Not like Sherlock. Or Mycroft really." She smiled broadly.

"I'd like to think I'm my own person. Mind you, I can channel Uncle's down right maliciousness if the situation calls for it, but it's so much more fun being nice to people, don't you think?" John blinked. Whatever the complete opposite of a sociopath was, that was Evie. It wasn't a normal person, oh no… Evie was completely something else.

"We're not telling him that I'm paralyzed," John said flatly. "We're getting him a coffee and a couple biscuits and maybe tying him to the bed." Evie chuckled a little. "What?"

"We tried that already. Apparently, it didn't work."

The only actual restaurant in the hospital was in the south wing of the second floor, while John's room was on the thirteenth floor, north wing. Evie also wanted to go down to the shop on the ground floor to pick up a small gift for Sherlock; she wouldn't tell John what it was.

"Got you this, though!" she said, handing the doctor a floral print paper parcel. "You can open it now if you want." John looked at her curiously, then opened the parcel. Inside was a brown teddy bear, wearing a dark gray Inverness jacket and matching ear flapped hat. In its hand was a magnifying glass. A detective.

"This is adorable, Evie," he told her with a chuckle. "Thank you."

"Nice and heavy too," she remarked. "Should work if you need to throw something at Uncle." John laughed as she pushed him into the lift; they were finally on the way up to Sherlock's room.

"So… why are Sherlock and I on different floors?"

"Uncle Mycroft got it into his head that the two of you would heal better if you were apart for a bit." John heard her groan softly. "All it did was make Uncle even more intolerable than before. He finally calmed down when I promised to go down and sit with you after Sarah left."

"He did?"

"Mhm. Not that I can do much, but we'll be fine as long as we're not in the Thames or any other body of water." John turned slightly to look at her.

"What do you mean by that?" he asked.

"I can't swim," Evie replied carelessly, as though she was telling him it was raining on her petunias.

"You can't swim?"

"And Uncle doesn't know the earth goes around the sun. Interesting, isn't it?" John started to reply when Evie turned the chair into a room, stopping just inside the doorway. Lying in the bed with his foot in traction was Sherlock, staring at the ceiling with a vacant expression on his face. On the floor beside the bed was a pile of rope; Evie had been serious about tying him into bed…


	3. Chapter 2

This is one of my favorite chapters so far, mostly because of the interaction between Sherlock and Evie :D

* * *

"How many patches is he wearing?" John asked as Evie wheeled him into the room. Sherlock hadn't seemed to have noticed their presence yet, so it was a fair question.

"None," Evie replied. "Haven't had the chance to sneak any in." The tone of her voice told him that she was deliberately not having the chance.

"That's not it at all, my dear niece," Sherlock said, turning his head towards them. "You're just taking it upon yourself to personally ensure my welfare."

"I love you too, Uncle." Evie stopped John next to the bed. "Someone has to do it, Uncle Mycroft won't lift a finger unless you're messing with national security… did I tell you he's offered me one thousand pounds to spy on you and the good doctor for the next few days?"

"No, you didn't tell me that."

"Me either," added John.

"Did you take it?" asked Sherlock.

"Of course," Evie replied. "I need a new laptop. Give me something interesting to tell him and I'll split it with you." Any doubts John may have had about Evie and Sherlock being related vanished right then and there.

"John, are you alright?" John looked at his friend, really looked at him. It had only been a day or two since they'd last seen each other, but to John it felt like ages.

"Fine," John replied. "Few bumps and bruises… what the hell happened to you?" Evie pulled up a chair and sat in it backwards, her arms crossed on the chair back.

"Oh you're going to love this, Doctor," she said, chuckling slightly. "Captain Courageous here somehow managed to get out of the explosion unscathed, only to hurt his ankle running after the bad guys."

"Yes, thank you, Evie, that's quite enough," Sherlock said quickly, narrowing his eyes slightly. Evie leaned forward on the chair a little bit, grinning wickedly.

"You don't want me to tell him the specifics of how you hurt your ankle? Or about the drag queens that broke your fall when it happened?"

"Drag queens?" John asked. Sherlock shot a glare at John before turning his attention back to his niece.

"Evie, isn't it time for you to go bug your Uncle Mycroft about something? Get him to make you your own TARDIS, or whatever that thing's called?" Evie shrugged her shoulders

"He's running into the same problem as the Doctor; who knew a functioning chameleon circuit was so hard to come by?" She got up from her chair, walked over to Sherlock's side and kissed him on the cheek. "I've got my cell, call me if you need anything? Besides nicotine patches, I'll never make it up here with them."

"Bah," Sherlock said, rolling his eyes. "I thought you said you loved me."

"I do! Enough to go borrow your oven at Baker street and make you biscuits." Evie winked at John before walking out the door. There was silence for a moment, both men staring out after her. The moment turned into almost ten minutes, neither man knowing what to say to the other about the ordeal they had somehow survived.

"So," John said finally, handing Sherlock the cup of coffee Evie had picked up for him. "All the compassion and humor from the Holmes family went into her, didn't it?"

"Seems that way, doesn't it?" Another pause. "She was completely lying just then…"

"About the drag queens?"

"Yes."

"What did happen then?"

"You remember there were two shots, do you not?"

"Yes, I was wondering about that… I wouldn't think you missed…"

"Oh I missed," Sherlock said plainly. "On purpose, to give you and I time to get a little bit further from the bomb."

"Why would that matter? There were enough explosives there to take down the whole building…"

"Was there?"

"…wasn't there?"

"He would have liked us to think that. Why have all those guns on us if the bomb was deadly? No, that bomb was barely powerful enough to make a noise and take out part of the ceiling." John nodded.

"And of course Moriarty wouldn't want to blow himself up…" He thought for a moment. "But it would have been deadly if I were still wearing it."

"Of course. Why do you think I took it off so quickly?"

"My charm and boyish good looks?" Sherlock stared at him for a moment before the pair burst into giggles. Once again, John felt as though everything was going to be alright.

"After I fired the first shot," Sherlock continued, "I… tackled you to move you a bit further away from the device."

"Yes," John replied, "that explains the concussion that landed me here."

"Obviously I didn't mean to hit you that hard…"

"That's going to end up on YouTube somehow, I'm sure."

"What is?"

"You, tackling me in a darkened pool." The giggling started again. "What happened next?"

"I fired the second shot that set off the bomb. You were out after the explosion; Moriarty was gone, as were his snipers. I could hear the police sirens already, so I went after him. Unfortunately, it had started to rain while we were inside and I didn't realize it until I went sliding down a flight of stairs. I'm told the ankle is merely sprained, but…" John began to grin.

"But some of Lestrade's men wanted to take pictures again?" Before Sherlock could answer, they heard a phone ring. "Not mine, it's back in my room." Sherlock reached to the bedside table and picked up his phone, reading the text on the screen.

"Dear lord, she was serious…"

"Who?"

"Evie; she wants to know why there's a hand in the oven and whether or not she can take it out to bake biscuits."

"Ah… why _is_ there a hand in the oven?"

"Seeing if it's possible to burn the surface without cooking the inside."

"A case, I'm assuming?"

"Personal curiosity." The phone sounded again; another text. "She wants to know if you want anything from the grocery store. We apparently have nothing in the house."

"You didn't go get milk, then?"

"Forgot; I did have to go save you from a criminal mastermind, after all."

"Tell her milk and beans then." He waited until Sherlock had sent the text before saying anything more. "She's different, isn't she?"

"Compared to myself and Mycroft, you mean?"

"Well, yeah," John admitted. "She's very… animated. About normal things, I mean. She's not jumping up and down about a serial killer."

"Just wait until the next one pops up," Sherlock warned him. "I assume she told you she's the daughter of my eldest brother."

"Yes, Sherringford… You've not mentioned him, you or Mycroft."

"There's not much to mention anymore, I'm afraid… Sherringford passed away a over Christmas, heart attack."

"I'm sorry… Evie lives with her mother, then?"

"Evie lives alone." John's eyes widened.

"Alone? She's just a kid, isn't she?"

"Thirteen. She lives at a boarding school right now, Mycroft and I haven't discussed where she'll be staying after this semester…" Sherlock's eyes widened a bit. "Makes me wonder what she's doing here… her school is a good three hours away, it's not break yet…"

"Worried about you?"

"No, she wouldn't leave school over this…" John was about to take the discussion further when a nurse walked into the room. After apologizing profusely to Sherlock for unnecessarily having his leg in traction, he informed the two men that they were free to go at any time. He also slipped John his number on the way out; much to John's dismay, Sherlock teased him about it all the way back to Baker Street.

"You're just jealous that they don't hit on you," John replied as they hug their coats in the hallway. "All you ever get is that poor girl, Molly." He stopped for a moment, thinking. "How is she going to take it, her beloved boyfriend is a psychopath…"

"She'll be alright," Sherlock replied. "It's not like he loved her back…"

"You never know… in everything evil, there's a small something good. Maybe Molly was that small something." Sherlock was about to reply when hurried footsteps caught his attention, drawing his eyes to the stairs; Mrs. Hudson was running down them. "Careful, Mrs. Hudson!"

"Oh Doctor Watson," she said, worry in her voice. "I'm so glad you're here…"

"Why, what's happened?" asked John.

"There's a woman upstairs, she's hurt badly… I helped her up to your sofa… Her pretty red hair, all messy and covered in blood…" Sherlock looked at her, eyes wide.

"What color did you say her hair was?"

"It was red… lovely color too, I'd love to know who did it for her…"

"It's natural." Sherlock didn't say another word as he pushed past Mrs. Hudson and ran up the stairs while John made sure the older woman didn't hurt herself before following him up. He was standing in the doorway when John caught up with him, staring into the sitting room; lying on the sofa—eyes closed, clothes torn and covered in blood—was Evie.


	4. Chapter 3

"Evie?" Holmes said softly, shaking her shoulder gently. "Evie, it's me, are you quite all right?" She opened one sleepy eye that seemed to glare at him.

"If you don't stop shaking me, I will break your nose," she replied flatly. "I have a hangover worthy headache and you're causing my brain to rattle against my skull. Knock it off." Sherlock blinked a few times before a small—relieved, John thought—grin crept over his face.

"Nice to see you're still your ever chipper self, my dear girl."

"Chipper be damned, that bloody hurt."

"What happened, Evie?" John asked, moving closer to check her over.

"I… I don't rightly know, Doctor. I would say that I ran across a mugger, but he didn't take anything." She nodded her head to the table in front of the sofa; her purse was upon it, as was a familiar floral parcel from the Charring Cross gift shop. "All he did was give me a good thrashing and ran off."

"I would say so… you're definitely going to need some stitches, you might have a concussion as well."

"Do you remember anything else?" Sherlock asked. He seemed jumpy… worried, John thought. It was… different.

"I thought I heard someone call for me," she said after thinking a moment. "That's what got me to stop walking."

"You didn't take a cab?" John asked.

"Not at first. Nice day, I wanted to walk for a bit. Figured I'd grab one after a few blocks."

"When you say someone called out, what did they say?"

"My name." Sherlock started to roll his eyes. "No, you're not getting it, Uncle. It was _my_ name. Not 'hey you' or just Holmes… it was specifically Evera Holmes."

"How did they say it?" She bit her bottom lip, her eyes cast downwards.

"Like most people would if they saw a person they hadn't seen in a while."

"What do you mean?" Evie chuckled, shooting a glance at John.

"See why I specified it as 'most people'?" John nodded, hiding a grin as she continued. "First name as a question; first name as an exclamation; first and last name as an exclamation. Subject turns around. Which I did."

"What happened next?"

"Well, this would be about the time I started looking for whoever called me; someone grabbed hold of my shirt and pulled me into an alleyway…" She paused a moment. "They didn't say anything, just proceeded to beat the snot out of me… and rip my shirt. I liked this shirt, it was my favorite."

"Not very accurate, is it?" Sherlock asked. Evie glared at him. The shirt was black with a small gold tiara on her chest and the caption "Self-Rescuing Princess".

"I'm here aren't I?" she asked coolly. "Not lying injured in an alley ten blocks away after getting thrashed. I got back here all by myself." She turned her attention to John. "I'd appreciate it if you took a look at my right hand, Doctor," she continued, holding it up to him, wincing slightly as she did so. "I only got one hit off on the man, but I made it worth while and that's how I got away…"

"You knocked him out?"

"No, but I think he decided not to stick around to see if I could hit any harder."

"I assume some of this blood is his, then?" Sherlock asked.

"Damn right it is."

"Young lady, you'll do well to keep a civil tongue in your head?"

"Or what, you'll rip it out and see what happens to it in the freezer?"

"Evera Jane…"

"Sherlock Tiberius!" There was a pause; John looked at Sherlock to find that his face had turned bright red.

"Is your middle name really Tiberius?" John asked. Sherlock nodded. Evie grinned.

"Granddad Siger was a Trekie." John decided that a conversational u-turn was needed before the niece and uncle personally started the next world war.

"Can you move you fingers for me, Evie?"

"I'd really rather not," Evie replied casually.

"Why's that?"

"Because it would hurt. A lot." John smiled knowingly; she'd broken a few fingers, possibly her whole hand punching the mugger.

"Sherlock, I'm going to take her down to the clinic, see if we can get an x-ray. Try not to set the house on fire while we're gone?"

"And clean the oven," Evie said. "Unless you don't want biscuits later, then by all means, leave it in its disgusting state."

"Do you two always bicker like that?" John asked in the cab on the way to the clinic. Evie shook her head.

"We don't bicker," she replied. "That implies some sort underlying aggression… Uncle and Uncle Mycroft bicker. Uncle and I banter."

"So, you two always banter like that, then?"

"Ever since I started talking, according to my dad."

"…I really can't imagine him around children."

"He wasn't left alone with me until I was able to call 999 on my own." John thought about this.

"Why would he want to be left alone with you?"

"I had smaller hands, good for getting into small mouthed containers and such… also, I think it might have had something to do with The Evil Overlord's List."

"The what?"

"It's a list of things one should and shouldn't do if they are an Evil Overlord," Evie explained. "One of the things is employing a normal five-year-old as an advisor; any flaws he or she can pick out will be fixed immediately."

"…and you were that five-year-old advisor?"

"Upgraded to thirteen-year-old advisor. My hands are still smaller than his." She looked at her injured hand, frowning slightly. "Most of the time, anyway…"

"It's probably not as bad as it looks," John assured her, gently taking her hand and looking it over again. It was swollen, but until he saw an x-ray, he couldn't be sure what was wrong. "You may need to wear a splint for a few weeks, but that won't be too bad."

"I play the piano," Evie said absently. "I'm not Elton John or anything, but I like to… and I really don't want to not be able to play anymore." John heard a faint sniffle and looked up from her hand. To his amazement, there were tears in her eyes. He didn't know what to say to her; deciding the best thing to do was nothing at all, he gently held her injured hand for the rest of the ride.

The clinic was relatively empty on that afternoon, which John was thankful for. Sarah was also there, which he was even more thankful for; another woman around might help to put Evie at ease.

"You do realize we don't have an x-ray machine here, right John?" Sarah asked as she took a look at Evie's hand. He realized it now of course, but he wasn't about to admit that. Thankfully, Evie was kind enough to refrain from shooting him any looks that might incriminate him.

"Wanted a second opinion before going back to the hospital," he said casually. "I think it may just be a broken finger or two, nothing we'd need a cast for." Sarah nodded and looked at Evie's hand.

"I think you're right," she replied. She then carefully touched each of Evie's fingers and her thumb; only when she touched the girl's middle and ring finger did Evie let out a soft cry. "There we are now, just the middle two… we'll numb those up, get them set and splinted and you'll be all set." Evie smiled warmly.

"Thank you, Sarah." Once the fingers had been taken care of and the cut on Evie's head stitched—and John successfully asked Sarah out on another date—Evie and John headed back towards Baker Street. The trip was silent until both of their phones rang.

"Did you just get a text from Sherlock?" John asked as he read the text on the screen.

"Yes," Evie replied, looking at her own phone. "Important case, come to Piccadilly straightaway." She looked at John, who nodded; he'd gotten the same one. "He probably sent it to both of use by mistake. I'll get off a Baker Street…" John's mobile rang again.

"No, apparently I'm supposed to bring you along." He showed his phone to her.

"Don't leave Evie at Baker Street," she read. "Could be dangerous."


	5. Chapter 4

On the subject of names... I'd like to thank you all for NOT going ballistic on me for not only giving Sherlock a middle name, but giving him SUCH a middle name ._.; Its one of those things that I thought was much funnier that it really was. But honestly, doesn't it sound plausible? In the books, Sherlock was described as eccentric; why wouldn't his father be the same? And we live in an age where fans do name children after favorite characters (Nick Cage named his son Kal-El for crying out loud), why wouldn't Siger Holmes be a Trekie and impart that upon his sons. Yes, I said sons. Keep reading ^_~

* * *

"Is Sherlock's middle name really 'Tiberius'?" John asked as they rode towards Piccadilly. Evie chuckled slightly, nodding.

"As I said, Granddad Siger was a Trekie," she replied. "If I'd given Uncle time to finish, you would've found out my middle name is actually Janeway." John chuckled. "If I'd have been a boy, my name was going to be Riker."

"Nice…your father and Mycroft, do they have Trekie names?"

"Mhm. Father is Sherringford James, for Captain Kirk, and Uncle Mycroft is Mycroft Scott."

"I assume your grandfather called him 'Scotty'?"

"Oh of course; I wouldn't recommend doing it though."

"Never crossed my mind."

"Oh yes it did." The rest of the ride was mostly silent, save for the few moments John would mutter "Sherlock Tiberius" and giggle.

Sherlock was waiting for John and Evie outside the Piccadilly Theater when they arrived, going as far as to open the door for them when the cab stopped.

"It's murder, John," he said almost cheerily. "Haven't looked at the scene yet, just got here myself, but Lestrade said it's a good one. Evie, how's your hand?"

"Sore, but not shattered," the girl replied with a smile.

"Playing the piano again soon, then?"

"Hopefully. A favor, Uncle?"

"Oh? What?"

"Sarah is very nice, Uncle. I like her. Try not to scare her off?" Sherlock groaned, rolling his eyes.

"I make no promises. Come along, Lestrade is waiting. Stay by John, keep quiet and don't touch anything."

"Of course, Uncle," Evie said, raising her injured hand to wave at the inspector. John couldn't help noticing that Lestrade didn't seem to be annoyed with the young woman's presence. In fact, he looked very happy to see her.

"You know the inspector?" he asked. Evie nodded.

"Oh, yes. I'm good friends with his stepdaughter, Jenna."

"Hello there, Angel," Lestrade said as he met them at the crime scene tape, causing Evie to blush slightly.

"Oh please, I'm no an angel." Lestrade was about to disagree when another voice interrupted him.

"Hello, Freak." The trio looked past Lestrade to see Sergeant Donovan walking towards them, her typical annoyed look on her face. John had caught completely different look on Evie's face; she was angry. "You still here, Doctor?" Donovan continued. "Still haven't considered a different hobby, not even after getting yourself blown up?"

John just shrugged his shoulders. He figured Donovan had had her fill of insults by now, no reason to fan the fire… how wrong he had been. Evie had been behaving as Sherlock told her too; she kept right by John's side and kept quite. There wasn't a problem until she went to follow John into the crime scene.

"Wait, who's this?" Donovan asked, blocking Evie from entering.

"My niece," Sherlock replied coolly. There was no further explanation on why Evie was there, which John expected. The matter of her mugging hadn't been brought to the police yet, and knowing Sherlock, it never would be.

"We met before, Sergeant," Evie added. "The Downey Law case in '07. I've gotten taller since then."

"Oh yeah, I remember," Donovan replied, raising an eyebrow at Sherlock. "That was a bank robbery… you thought it'd be a good idea to bring her to a murder scene? You really are a freak…"

"Sergeant Donovan." Evie's words were calm; her eyes were anything but. "I can quite understand your dislike for my uncle. I'm related to the man and he wears on my nerves at times. Regardless…" The young girl's eyes narrowed. "Your constant comments towards him, your calling him a freak; I don't like it. At all."

"Well," Donovan replied. "Excuse _me_, Miss Holmes, but I really…" Her tone was sarcastic and snobbish and any fool could see that Evie didn't like it one bit.

"I am talking, Sergeant." Her voice now matched the anger in her eyes; John noticed how everyone else in the room took a step back from the two women. Himself and Sherlock included. "Choose your words very carefully around me from now on, Sergeant Donovan, because you will _not_ like the consequences if you don't." Donovan was getting angry now; being told off by a thirteen-year-old did that to a person.

"Who the hell do you think you are, kid?" she demanded. "Talking to me, a _police officer_, like that? I've got the mind to send you to juvie for a night, that'll take care of your attitude."

"You won't do that."

"Oh yeah? Why not?" Evie smiled… no, John thought, that wasn't a smile. That was a smirk; the most malicious smirk he'd ever seen on a human's face.

"Because," Evie replied. "I'm the kid with this picture on her mobile." As she held up the gadget, John noticed that her voice was completely calm again. There was no reason for it not to be, he realized; on the screen of her phone was a picture of Sergeant Donovan kissing a man. That man, everyone realized, was Anderson.

"Wh…where did you get that?" Donovan exclaimed, her face turning red.

"Went to see the Royal Ballet perform _The Nutcracker_ with a friend before Christmas." Evie returned the phone to her pocket before continuing. "Wasn't the picture I intended to take, mind you, but it's a lovely one don't you think? That was during the Pas de deux, wasn't it? Most romantic part of the ballet, wouldn't you agree?" Donovan was trying hard to hold back a blush, but was failing. "Here's the thing, Sergeant," Evie continued, her arms crossed in front of her. "I ever hear you talking about my uncle that way again, the only decision I'll have to make is whether to send the photos straight to Mrs. Anderson or the media." The smirk returned to her face. "Oh, and before you try to have my phone confiscated for whatever reason you can think up, I have other copies saved elsewhere." John shot a look at Sherlock; he looked like he was trying very hard not to beam with pride.

"This is entrapment!" Donovan hissed, her dark eyes blazing. Evie chuckled softly.

"Oh please; entrapment is what you cops do to suspects. This is all out blackmail."

"Inspector, do you hear what she's saying?" Donovan cried, looking to her boss for help.

"I do, Sergeant," he replied. "Evie is asking you to stop being so rude towards Mr. Holmes. Something I suggest you do." It was then that John learned something important: Lestrade, for some reason—possibly involving the aforementioned bank robbery or Lestrade's stepdaughter—liked Evie much more than he liked Sally Donovan.

He also remembered one of the first things Evie told him about herself: "I can channel Uncle's down right maliciousness if the situation calls for it"… He decided it would be for the best if he never got on her bad side.

Lestrade led the detective, the doctor and the kid over to the victim; she was at the top of the stairs, sitting just out of the public view. She wore a purple raincoat with the hood down, black boots and black pants. In her hair was a pin that looked very much like a black and white pinwheel. Her hair really caught everyone's eye.

It was bright red.


	6. Chapter 5

This one is a little shorter, but I needed to end it where I did. It was screaming at me "END THIS CHAPTER HERE OR YOU WILL BE EX-TER-MIN-ATED!"

Of course, that could be a byproduct of the three cups of coffee I've drank in the past two hours.

* * *

"Well, Evie," Sherlock asked as he looked over the body. "What do you think?" The girl shook her head, grinning slightly.

"Oh no," she said. "Leave me out of this, Uncle; the last time you asked me to take a look, I got shot at."

"Come now, where's your sense of adventure?"

"I forgot it in the cab." John chuckled softly.

"Are you volunteering your eyes then, John?" Sherlock asked.

"Not at all," he replied. "In fact, I'll be over here, talking with the Inspec…"

"I don't want my crime scene tainted, Holmes, do you hear me?" John rolled his eyes. Anderson had apparently shown up. He looked over towards Sherlock, but his eyes landed on Evie; she was looking right at Sergeant Donovan. A smile curled her lips as she cast her eyes down to her fingernails on her uninjured hand. She then began whistling a tune; _The Dance of the Sugar Plum Fairy_.

"He'll be fine, Anderson!" Donovan said quickly. Sherlock looked over at Evie, chuckling slightly.

"Anything I find will be brought to your attention straight away," Sherlock assured him. "Evie, go talk to the person who found the body, won't you?" Evie nodded, pulling a small notebook out of her pocket.

"Am I the amateur reporter with an internship" she asked, "or detective's summer assistant?"

"Better go with the second one. John, can you be her supervisor?"

"Uh, sure…"

"First one bought me my DS," Evie remarked.

"And got your Gran on my case for weeks. I'll save myself the lecture, thank you."

"Where's _your_ sense of adventure?"

"Replaced by my sense of self preservation." He nodded towards the crowd. "Go on then.

"Yeah, yeah, come on John."

"Why does he want you asking the questions?" John asked.

"I'm thirteen years old," Evie replied. "No one will take me seriously, they'll tell me stuff they may not tell the police simply because they think I'm just a kid."

"…you two come up with these things before hand just to mess with me, don't you?" Evie smiled, laughing softly.

"Trust me, you'll know when we've teamed up to mess with you."

"Should I be worried?"

"Oh yes." They had reached the person who found the victim, an elderly man who was now seated on bench, looking shaken by what he'd found. "Hello there!" Evie said cheerily. "My name is Evera, I'm a summer intern with Scotland Yard and this is my boss John." She sat down next to the man, offering him a stick of gum from the pack in her pocket. "You look like you could use a little extra sugar, am I right?"

"Yes, young lady, you are," the man agreed, taking the stick of gum. "How could you tell?" Evie smiled, taking a piece herself.

"The prick marks on your fingertips; type 2 diabetes, am I right?" He laughed.

"Yes, yes you are. I've managed to keep it from developing into type one, but every once in a while you need that extra sweet boost."

"Especially if you find a woman dead." He was silent.

"Yes, especially then…" Evie rested a hand on his knee, smiling gently.

"What happened, sir?"

"I was talking to her… she's not from around here, had a thick American accent… couldn't tell her that though, bloody Americans, they all think they haven't got an accent."

"Unless they're from the south," Evie agreed. "They about flaunt theirs."

"Not this one though," the man said. "She had a southern American accent, but she insisted she didn't have one at all. Talked like a real belle, she did."

"What happened next?" she asked.

"She just… fell over," he replied. "No, that's not right… there was a sound first. It wasn't a gunshot though, it was kind of like… a thud, I guess. Blood splattered out of her chest, got all over me. That's when she fell over." He drew a sharp, deep breath before continuing. "She was getting tickets for the circus tonight… she was looking forward to it…" While the man took a moment to compose himself, John looked over Evie's shoulder to look at the notes she was taking:

_Witness saw the murder, not just found the body._

_Victim was an American "Southern Belle"_

_Witness is not our killer_

Eventually, he would ask how she knew that last one. He continued watching her as she took a card out of her pocket—how big were they, anyway?—and handed it to him.

"Just in case you need it," she said, standing up. "If you think of anything else, be sure to call Scotland Yard." He looked at the card, then up at Evie and smiled.

"Thank you, young lady."

"How do you know he's not the killer?" John asked as they walked back towards Sherlock and Lestrade.

"He wasn't crying." There was a pause.

"I'm sorry, what?"

"He wasn't crying, John," she said. "He was upset about the woman's death, but there were no tears; he was in shock."

"I see… what was that card you gave him?" Her answer took him completely by surprise.

"The number to my therapist."


	7. Chapter 6

"Lestrade, this is murder," Sherlock said plainly. "I can see that. You can see that. There's nothing interesting about this woman's death at all… ow!" Evie had joined the conversation by now and found it fit to stand on her tiptoes and smack Sherlock on the back of the head.

"Someone's wife isn't coming home tonight, Uncle," she told him. "Try to remember that, show some respect." Sherlock glared at her slightly, but said nothing. "I think, Inspector, what Uncle is trying to say in that special way of his is 'what aren't you telling us'?"

"This isn't the first victim," Lestrade said slowly. "There have been four others, all red-heads… but this one's different."

"How?" asked Sherlock, a hint of excitement in his voice. He looked over at Evie, half expecting her to be ready to slap him again. Her arms were crossed in front of her, a small grin on her face; she was excited too.

"The other four were beaten to death. It looked like they were mugged, but as far as we can tell, nothing was taken. None of them had any defensive wounds either…"

"Does anything else link the victims?" John asked. "Did they go to school together, work together, anything?"

"A card." Lestrade's eyes widened as everyone looked at Evie. "A white post card with a male and female silhouette on one the front, both with red hair. The back reads 'The Red-Headed League: At the request of the late Ezekiah Hopkins, of Lebanon, Pennsylvania, U.S.A., there are now ten vacancies open which entitle members of the League to a salary of one hundred pounds a week for purely nominal services. All red-headed men and women are eligible. You will be contacted at a later date to discuss membership'."

"Evie," Sherlock said slowly. "How do you know that?" She reached into a completely pocket and pulled out the card she just described.

"Because I got this one just before I left school." She handed the card over to Sherlock, her hand shaking slightly.

"Did they contact you about membership?"

"No, they never did… I planned on saying no, it seemed too good to be true. Like one of those pyramid schemes…" John took her gently by the arm.

"Sherlock, I'm taking her home." The detective nodded, watching as the doctor took Evie to the nearest cab and helped her inside.

"This one didn't have a card," Sherlock said. "She was a replacement."

"A replacement for what?" asked Anderson.

"The victim that got away."

"But who is that?" Lestrade asked. Sherlock shot him a loot. "…you don't mean Evie?"

"She was has the card and was mugged this morning… but she fought back, she got away… Lestrade, I'm going to need to see the rest of the victims." The inspector nodded.

"They're in the morgue."

Sherlock returned to Baker Street a few hours later, unnerved slightly by how quiet the place was. He ascended the stairs quickly, wondering if one of his other cases had come back to haunt him.

"John, Evera!" he called, throwing the door open. John was on the sofa, reading a magazine. Evie was nowhere in sight. "John, where's Evie?"

"Evie has locked herself up in my room," John replied, turning a page in his magazine. Sherlock stared at him, blinking a few times.

"Why did she do that?"

"She was probably too afraid of what might be in your room."

"No, I mean _why_ is she locking herself in anywhere?"

"Your brother was here when we got back from the crime scene. He and Evie got into a bit of a row."

"My brother had a row with a thirteen-year-old girl?"

"Yup."

"Better than having one with a pin machine, I guess." John rolled his eyes.

"Funny, very funny. Did you know she dropped out of school?"

"No, but it doesn't surprise me."

"It doesn't?" asked John. "Why not?"

"Evie's been wanting to attend a school here in London for some time."

"I see… well, as you can guess, Mycroft wasn't too thrilled with the situation. They got into a shouting match; Mycroft told her she was going back, Evie said she wasn't… it all ended with Evie reminding Mycroft that he's not her father and her storming up to my room and locking the door." He turned the page in his magazine. "Mycroft wanted me to let you know that she's now officially 'your problem'." Sherlock rolled his eyes, sitting down in his favorite chair.

"Damned fool," he muttered. "Upsetting her like that after what happened." Before John could ask what he was talking about, Sherlock continued. "We've got more important things to worry about right now; I went to see the other victims… ran into Molly."

"Oh? How's she doing?"

"In hysterics. She hasn't seen Jim since that day at the hospital and blames me for it of course."

"Of course. What did you learn from the other victims?"

"That they were drugged." John finally looked up from his magazine. "All of them, jabbed in the neck with a syringe of Propofol. That's how why there were no defensive wounds."

"What about Evie?" John asked. "She couldn't have been drugged, otherwise she'd not have been able to fight back." Sherlock shrugged his shoulders.

"Maybe the mugger underestimated her; more likely, she was meant to escape him."

"Why is that more likely?"

"How better to draw me into a case than attack the one family member I actually _like_ having around?"

"You like having her around?" John asked, surprised. Sherlock nodded absently.

"I haven't thrown her out yet have I?"

"No, but you haven't thrown me out either."

"And for good reason." He never stated what that that reason was, but it didn't stop a smile from curling the doctor's lips. "What's this then?" Sherlock asked, picking up the floral parcel from Charring Cross.

"Evie got that for you at the hospital. Haven't the slightest what's in it." Sherlock opened the bag and looked inside. After a moment, he began to chuckle. "What?"

"Apparently, my dear niece feels that I need a doctor." He pulled the object out of the parcel; a brown teddy bear dressed in a white lab coat, wearing a stethoscope. John chuckled as well, picking his own bear up off the floor.

"And that I need a detective."

"More like you two need each other." The two men looked towards the kitchen, where Evie was standing. Her eyes were red and she was wiping tears from them. "Is that other uncle of mine gone yet, or will I be attempting to flee out John's window to my hotel?"

"He's gone," John said. "How's your hand?"

"I didn't think it was possible to make it hurt more than it did this morning," Evie replied. "I thought wrong."

"What did you do?" Sherlock asked, looking at her. Evie sat down next to John, raising an eyebrow at him.

"You didn't tell him?" John shook his head.

"Tell me what?"

"That I foolishly struck uncle Mycroft with my hurt hand." Sherlock considered this for a moment before replying.

"What was so foolish about striking him?"

"That I did it with my hurt hand; were you not paying attention?" Sherlock shook his head.

"Why did you hit him?" he asked. Evie didn't answer; she was looking down at the floor. "Evie?" She got up from the couch.

"I'm heading back to my hotel," she said softly. "I'm at the Northumberland, room 316." She walked out without another word.

"What did he do, John?" Sherlock asked. "Why did she hit him?" John drew a deep breath, letting it out slowly.

"I told you she reminded Mycroft he wasn't her father?" he asked, to which Sherlock nodded in reply. "He said that if he was, she wouldn't be the disrespectful urchin Sherringford raised her to be."

"I see," Sherlock growled.

"That's when Evie hit him, knocked him flat. She then told him not to talk about her dad like that and stormed up to my room." The pair was silent for a moment. "We just let her walk out of here when there may be a serial killer after her." John was certain he'd never seen Sherlock move so fast.


	8. Chapter 7

Holy crap, an update! Sorry, the muse ran off when the weather here in Angelica went insane. Something about people in warm climates needing muses more than I do... anyway, here! Have an update!

* * *

"Evie has a therapist?" John asked. The question came as they strolled to the Northumberland Hotel. Sherlock seemed to be off in his own world until John spoke, looking at him curiously.

"She told you that?"

"In a round about way; she gave her…"

"His, actually."

"_His_ card to the witness." Sherlock nodded. He was quiet for a moment, causing John to wonder if he would even answer. Soon enough, he spoke again.

"Sherringford's heart attack came after a fight with Evie over the phone, strangely enough over her leaving the school she attended. It got quite heated and she hung up on him…" He sighed, running a hand through his hair. "The doctors said his heart had been weak for a long time, but no one could tell Evie that… not even Sherringford himself. As far as she's concerned, that fight was what killed him."

"Wait, Sherringford told her?" asked John.

"He didn't pass on as soon as he had the heart attack," Sherlock replied. For the first time, John thought he heard sadness in Sherlock's voice. "He lived a day or two; Evie stayed by his side until he couldn't hold on anymore."

"Oh my..."

"He told her it wasn't her fault, that his heart had been ailing him for years… she just doesn't believe him."

"Guilt is a hard thing to overcome," John said. How many times had he thought about the day he was shot; how the surging pain in his shoulder prevented him from helping anyone. How many of them had died because he was unable to help them? He, himself, may have died out there, had an orderly not grabbed and thrown him on a truck… "But it can be done," he continued. "It just needs time."

Soon enough, the two men found themselves in front of room—suite, actually—316, Sherlock knocking on the door when they arrived. John could faintly hear the sounds of Chopin's Étude Opus 10 Number 3, in E major being played on a radio within the room. It made him smile slightly. The door opened a moment later; a young girl John had never seen before was at the door.

"Hello, Mister Holmes," she said a bit timidly, brushing a strand of dark brown hair out of her eyes. "It's nice to see you again."

"Hello Jenna," Sherlock replied as warmly as a man like Sherlock Holmes could. "Come to see Evie?"

"I got here just as she did," the girl replied. As she and the detective conversed, John remembered that Evie had said Lestrade's stepdaughter was named Jenna; surely this had to be her. "She took two Paramol and asked me to take the bottle after." She handed the bottle to Sherlock. "I made sure it was only two."

"I don't doubt it," Sherlock replied. He nodded to John. "This is my friend, Doctor John Watson. Might we come in?"

"Oh, of course!" Jenna stepped aside, blushing slightly. "Please to meet you, Doctor. Evie's in by the piano."

"Trying to play it?" John asked a bit sadly, thinking of how her hand must ache after using it to strike Mycroft.

"Oh no, Doctor, not trying," Jenna said, leading them through the suite to a brightly lit sitting room, where John was surprised to see Evie at the piano. "She's succeeding." John watched in amazement as Evie's fingers flew across the keys before her. The song was slow and presumably meant to be sad, but there was not a trace of sorrow in the way she played. She was happy and wanted the world to know it.

"I'll have to thank Uncle Mycroft," she said, holding her right hand up while continuing to play with her left; the splints were removed and she wiggled her fingers like nothing had happened. "Apparently, another good crack was all I needed."

"Not broken then?" Sherlock asked, looking at John.

"I never said it _was_ broken," John replied. "Only that it might be." He shrugged his shoulders. "I'm a doctor, not oracle."

"I thought you went to get it x-rayed?"

"The machine was broken," Evie said quickly, returning to her hand to the piano. "Who cares, my hand works!"

"Evie, we need to talk about the card." She stopped playing, turning to face her uncle. "When did you get it?"

"Tuesday," she said. "I had just told the headmaster I was leaving, the card was in the mail when I got back to my room."

"Was there an envelope?" Evie bit her bottom lip, thinking for a moment.

"I… don't think so," she replied sadly. "No envelope, no address… I should have realized…" John noticed that Jenna was quick to comfort Evie, putting an arm around her. Evie was just as quick to receive the comfort, resting her head on Jenna's shoulder.

"Let me see the card, Evie," Sherlock replied. She handed it over to him; he looked at it closely. Before he could say anything, there was a knock at the door. "Expecting anyone?" Evie raised an eyebrow.

"I'm at a hotel in a city I haven't been in for five years and everyone I know, save the man I recently slapped, is in here."

"Fair point." Sherlock went to the door and looked through the peep hole. A porter from the hotel was standing outside, a brown box in his arms. "Yes?"

"Package for Miss Holmes, Sir," the porter called through the door. "And a sealed letter for Mr. Sherlock Holmes." Sherlock opened the door, took the package and letter and shut the door quickly. The box—which was unwrapped and had handle shaped holes on each side—had some weight to it and that weight kept shifting. He shook his head as he set the box down on the table in front of Evie. She looked at him, curiously.

"It's a bit early for my birthday, Uncle," she said. "Are you sure it's safe?"

"Probably." Evie rolled her eyes and slowly removed the red ribbon that was tied around the box. The moment she had done so, the lid popped up; underneath it was a small English springer spaniel puppy.

"Aww!" both girls exclaimed happily. Evie took the box top off his head, setting it on the table before lifting the pup out of the box.

"Hello there," she said softly. She held the puppy under his front legs—which is how everyone knew it was indeed a boy—and looked him over as he squirmed and struggled to lick her face with his long tongue. The dog looked to be smiling at Evie, John thought. It was a beautiful pup, deep liver colored everywhere but a white caplet on his back that moved down his front legs and stomach and a small line down his forehead, wrapping around his muzzle. Around his neck was a yellow ribbon that held a small note. "To my darling niece, with my utmost apologies. Uncle Mycroft." Evie laughed softly and held the puppy close.

"What'd you get?" John asked, noticing Sherlock was reading the contents of the envelope he had received. Rather than telling him, Sherlock handed John the letter. It read as follows:

_As I said before, she's your problem now._

_ Mycroft._


End file.
